Sisterchicks Down Under (18 page)

“Have no fear,” Jill said. “I can see another shop less than a block from here. We’ll find a hat for Skyler before the sun goes down.”

We made our way back to the harbor—one gift shop at a time. I was relieved that Jill enjoyed shopping as much as I did.
For me, half the fun was trying on every hat and comparing prices on all the opals. I always felt better about a purchase when I knew I’d gotten a good deal.

“Look at these little kangaroos!” Jill said, as we entered one of the gift shops near the Quay. “They even squeak! I’m buying this one with the Australian flag.”

She picked up a stuffed mama kangaroo with a joey peeping out of her pouch. “Oh, and this one has to come home with me. My granddaughter needs it.”

Between the two of us, we snatched up all nine of the little kangaroos and started trying on more hats. I’d plopped at least a dozen on my head, but all the outback ones were pretty large and heavy.

“What do you think of this hat?” Jill put on one that looked more feminine than the others.

“That’s cute. If Skyler doesn’t like it, I’d wear it.” I took the hat from Jill and tried it on.

“Sold,” I said without even looking at myself in a mirror. This was the first hat of the day that wasn’t too big for a woman-sized head.

I took the hat and stuffed kangaroos to the counter and noticed another shopper browsing by the jewelry case. She was comparing her opal necklace with a silver one on display.

“That’s very pretty.” I nodded at her necklace.

“Oh, thanks.” Her accent sounded southern. “I just bought it at the Rock. They only had gold over there. I like this silver one better. Have you been to the Rock yet?”

“No, where is that?”

“Other side of the harbor. Darling shops. And they have a flea market going on. My husband bought himself a pair of leather boots. You should go over there.”

“You called it the Rock?”

“That’s right. Isn’t that right, honey?”

Her husband stepped in and said, “It’s the Rocks, not the Rock. It’s the oldest part of Sydney, right off the harbor, where the convicts landed in colonial times. The store we liked was on Lower Fort Street.”

“Thanks. We’ll go there next.”

Leaving the store with Skyler’s girlish outback hat and a bagful of kangaroos, we hailed a cab and asked to be taken to the Rocks. We were still in a shopping mood, and time was of the essence. When we reached Lower Fort Street, we did a little opal jewelry browsing before making our way down the uneven brick streets to the Saturday market.

The brick buildings around us seemed to hold in their secrets of rowdier times in this square. Today, artisans—not Great Britain’s undesirables—filled the Rocks.

I bought a Christmas ornament at the first stall we passed and paused to try some organic hand lotion. The woman who created the lotion showed me her line of soaps, shampoos, and bath oils.

“Step away from the bubble bath.” Jill teased, as she came up from behind and pretended to be on patrol. “You know what happened the last time you had several bottles within reach. Just put down the bath oil, and nobody gets hurt.”

I chortled and said I was sampling the lotion. I held out my hand for Jill to sniff the sweet fragrance.

“Nice. Plumeria,” Jill said.

“We call it frangipani,” said the clerk.

“We’d like two bottles,” I told the woman.

“I should get one, too,” Jill said.

“No, that’s why I’m buying two. One is for you.”

Jill put her wallet back in her purse and gave me a tender look. “Thank you, Kathy.”

“You’re welcome.”

Jill looked as if it had been a long time since anyone had surprised her with a little gift.

We headed toward another stall where a man was playing what the sign called a didjeridoo. He blew into the end of a long, hollow tube, and the vibrating sound that came from the primitive instrument filled the area with a rounded sort of hum.

As we watched him play, we noticed three women who had to be at least our age, dressed like underwater ballet swimmers but with some comic twists. They wore brightly-colored swim caps that had plastic flowers attached to their sides, orange swimmer’s goggles, one-piece bathing suits in matching blue with yellow and pink polka dots, matching blue tights on their legs, and pink jelly sandals. Their waists were decked out with inflatable kiddy inner tubes that had yellow duckies on the blue circles. The women’s arms were adorned with blown-up, bright yellow floaties.

One woman had a snorkel in her mouth and was making exaggerated gurgling noises. The other two women were calling out the strokes, “And one, two, turn to the side, three, arms up, and four.”

Jill and I, along with a dozen others, stopped to stare at the bizarre street theater company. The three women, in perfectly synchronized motions, treated the open air as their practice swimming pool and moved through the crowd performing their routine as smoothly as any dance ensemble. Trailing behind them was another woman in a gray shark costume, blowing bubbles through the shark’s wide-open mouth. They were having a ball.

Jill and I laughed even though none of the other spectators seemed to know how to react.

“Chilly, this water today, don’t you think, girls?” one of the swimmers said.

“Brisk!” said the other.

“Gurffple!” said the one with the snorkel.

“Lovely day, no less. Again, ladies, from the top. Push to the surface and down …”

Off they went. Arms up, then bending at the waist, all in unison.

The gathering of curious viewers was now laughing with Jill and me. “Well, that’s one way to get your exercise!” a woman said.

“Where do we sign up?” Jill asked me, as we watched the blue-legged ballerinas waddle and wiggle away from us. “That was daring and darling. I loved it!”

“Should we see about starting up our own routine and try it out in front of the Chocolate Fish?” I asked.

“I’m sure Tracey would be all for it.”

“Come on, Jill! You could put those old cheerleading skills back into use.”

“Thanks for the encouragement, but I don’t think out-of-water ballet is the hidden treasure I hold in my hand.”

We chuckled and continued our trek through the open market. We could still feel the low vibrations of the didjeridoo instrument, as it released more vibrating sounds into the air and into the earth beneath our feet.

This is a strange and wonderful place.

That same thought repeated itself throughout the afternoon. We bought a variety of fun souvenirs at the outdoor market, including a boomerang and a wooden bowl made
from the burl of an aged eucalyptus tree. Jill wanted the bowl for her coffee table and was enthralled with the various lines and squiggles that showed through the sides of the polished wood. Her appreciation for the symmetry of the lines didn’t bother me so much anymore. I wondered if I was beginning to make peace with math.

We found great prices on opal jewelry, and I splurged on a blue opal necklace with matching earrings for myself. The shade of blue in the stones reminded me of the blue sky over Christchurch and the inviting blue of the water in front of the Chocolate Fish. I knew that whenever I looked at the necklace, it would make me feel happy.

By four-thirty we were more than ready for something to eat and were thrilled to find an outdoor café right on the harbor that had a table open for us next to the water. Our prime seats gave us a perfect view of the bridge the Opera House, and the ferries that came and went at a quick pace from the Quay.

“This couldn’t be better!” Jill motioned to the panorama before us. “What a beautiful afternoon; the air is so warm and nice. We’ll have to take a ferry ride tomorrow.”

I took a drink of my iced tea. “I just thought of something. We aren’t exactly dressed for the opera, and I don’t think we’ll have enough time to go back to the hotel to change.”

“Well,” Jill said, reaching into one of our shopping bags. “I think you should jazz up your outfit with this hat.” She popped the outback hat on my head. “What do you think?”

“Hey be nice. I like this hat!”

“I do, too. It looks great on you. I think Skyler may have to come here herself and pick out her own hat.”

Reaching into one of my shopping bags, I pulled out several of the stuffed kangaroos. “We could skin these little critters
and quickly make evening gowns for ourselves out of their fur. We certainly have enough pelts to make two floor-length gowns.”

Jill laughed.

At that moment I noticed a tattered white feather that had floated from one of the many birds dipping in and out of the café area. They were hopping around looking for a leftover crust or a bit of forgotten French fry. The feather landed on our table. I snatched it up and slipped it into the inside pocket of my purse.

“Grabbing a feather for the final touch on our evening wear?” Jill asked.

“I’m starting a collection,” I said, reminding Jill about the two feathers that were in my hair the day we met at the Chocolate Fish. I didn’t tell her that my plan was to create a greeting card with the feathers.

We clinked the rims of our iced tea glasses as the waitress stepped up to take the rest of our order. We talked her into snapping our picture, and I knew this would be the picture I would frame. I would long remember the sensations of this place and the lightness of this day.

“I heard you talking about the dress code for the opera,” the waitress said when she delivered our Thai salads. “Some people dress up, but there’s no dress code, so you’ll be fine in what you’re wearing.”

“Too bad,” Jill said, surprising the waitress and me. “I was hoping for an excuse to shop for something really extravagant.”

“We can still do that, if we eat quickly.”

“Who can eat quickly in a setting like this? I’m going to savor each bite.”

I felt the same way. We watched sailboats in the harbor,
took small bites of our delicious salads, and savored each moment of the balmy Sydney evening.

Since we were so close to the Opera House, we took our time strolling over there. As we walked up the steep stairs, we saw people dressed in formal attire as well as others who were in shorts and T-shirts. This definitely was a gathering place for everyone.

Our seats were terrific. The entire theater filled with eagerly chatting guests. All around us in our section were school children that Jill and I guessed to be about eighth- or ninth-graders. All of them wore school uniforms. The boys were from one school, and the girls were from another. Both of us loved listening to the conversations and innocent flirting that was going on between the two groups. Jill and I kept exchanging grins and eyebrow-raised expressions.

The musicians took their places. The lights dimmed. The students’ politeness was impressive as the room quieted, and the curtain went up.

The program called this performance “Opera Favorites,” and the first song was “Nessun Dorma” from an opera called
Turandot.
A stout man delivered the song, and I knew I’d heard it before. I didn’t know where, but part of the melody was familiar. On the forceful notes, the singer’s voice reverberated in the rounded auditorium. When his tones grew softer, the room seemed to shrink with his voice.

I was amazed that one man’s voice could fill the space so powerfully. I was also astounded that such a large group of students would be held in respectful silence as he sang. I knew very little about opera, so I’m sure I didn’t appreciate the performance as much as I might have. But I doubted that a roomful of California students the same age would have given
the performance the same kind of attention and appreciation.

The applause rose heartily from the crowd, as the performer took his bow. Next came an aria from
Madame Butterfly
, and again, when the woman sang, I knew I’d heard the song before. Maybe I knew a little more about opera than I’d realized.

Intermission came sooner than I expected. Most of the audience cleared out of the auditorium. Jill and I followed and found ourselves on the open deck of the lower level of the Opera House facing the harbor. When we had entered the Opera House, the evening sky was dressed in twilight. We had missed the sunset, but now, in front of this magical opening to another world, we looked out on Sydney Harbor with all the twinkle lights winking back at us.

“Everyone is so chatty!” Jill looked around.

Some of the audience were waiting in line to buy beverages. Others were leaning against the railing, pointing up at the stars that were doing their twinkling best to match the lights reflected in the harbor waters.

A lit-up ship puttered past us, with music loud enough for us to hear. We could see couples dancing on the top level. It was a splendidly romantic sight, one that would have made a fabulous subject for a beautiful photograph or, better yet, an oil painting.

Jill’s profile dipped slightly. Her shoulders dropped. I saw a tear dance alone down her cheek.

“Are you okay?”

“I miss Ray,” she whispered.

The only thing I knew to do was to stand with her. So I did. Shoulder to shoulder, leaning with our arms on the railing, watching the romantic scene float past us.